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Thus, as a vague deceitful Muse
Its melody may re-infuse
Into a heart that hath declined
From the pure guidance of the mind.
O limbs, whose life is it ye live?
Which now no more your service give
To a considerant human soul!
Is it the wind which doth control
This graceful twining of your play?
Or do mild spirits, gently gay,
Thus prompt your motions to obey
The self-same impulse which persuades
The woodbine, deep in oaken shades,
Her sturdy pillar to embrace
With movements of such matchless grace
Or bids the skylark, of pure sound
Extracted from the dewy ground
While morning yet is all divine,
About the fleeing stars entwine,
In modulations soft as strong,
The bright inevitable line
Of its elastic song?
Poor Child! when Fancy's all is said,
What art thou but a creature dead,—
Dead to the real life of life,
